


The Food of Love

by justbreathe80



Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-14
Updated: 2009-12-14
Packaged: 2017-10-04 10:25:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justbreathe80/pseuds/justbreathe80
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ah, yes, his next appointment. 5 p.m.. Ray Kowalski and Stella Fowler, reception for 350 at the Adler Planetarium, June 14.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Food of Love

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the ds_harlequin challenge
> 
> I took some minor liberties with the prompt, and I am NOT a chef, so all culinary details are subject to, uh, being wrong. I have many, many people to thank for this fic. First of all, my whole friends list, who participated in a sort of "choose your own adventure" poll for this fic, and most of the credit for the ideas goes to them. Thanks to aerye, who answered the call for an adequate flashback device, which was wonderful, and to shoemaster, who gave me the Maxwell Street Market. And, last, but very certainly not least, to my beta crew: brooklinegirl, riverlight, and to etben, who checked my Chicago last night, in the midst of life craziness. I love you all!

“If music be the food of love, play on  
Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting,  
The appetite may sicken, and so die.” -- William Shakespeare, Twelfth Night

Fraser straightened up the papers on his desk, filing the menus from the Schwartzman/Silverberg wedding and the contracts for the Davis/Chen reception in the bottom left drawer. He looked out of the window of his office, where he could see the El tracks and hear the metal screech of the trains in the distance. When the phone rang, loud and clear, he jerked his head back to his desk.

"Good afternoon, Aurora Borealis Catering," he said cheerfully.

"Fraser? Benton Fraser?" A man's voice came through the line, nasal and very Chicago, and the line was filled with static. Cell phone.

"Yes, this is he."

Fraser heard a deep sigh, and a woman's voice in the background, but he couldn't make out what she was saying. "Okay. Great. Greatness. Listen, this is Ray Kowalski." Ah, yes, his next appointment. 5 p.m.. Ray Kowalski and Stella Fowler, reception for 350 at the Adler Planetarium, June 14.

"Hello, Mr. Kowalski. Are we still on for our appointment?"

"It's Ray, and yeah. Yeah. We just - there's some traffic and we'll be there a few minutes late. Stella wanted me to call. Is that okay?"

Fraser looked at the clock. 4:59. Apparently, Ms. Fowler was incredibly conscientious. "No problem at all. I'm here."

"Great. Okay. See you in a minute." Then the line went dead.

Fraser pulled the phone away from his ear, and smiled. Ray Kowalski sounded very different than Fraser had expected, after spending an hour on the phone with Stella Fowler the previous week, getting grilled about his capabilities, and told that she and Ray were _very_ willing to spend quite a bit of money on the reception food. He'd pictured a straight-laced, upper-crust sort of man to be marrying Stella Fowler. Just his voice was jarring, to say the least. Not at _all_ what Fraser expected.

With the phone receiver back in its cradle, Fraser had enough time to take out the folders with "Aurora Borealis Catering" printed on the cover, with sample menus and pricing inside, turning them around and placing them in front of the two chairs across from the desk.

Fraser heard voices come down the hallway outside, bickering almost, and then the door swung open, and a thin, small woman with sleek blond hair walked in, her heels clicking on the hardwood floor. She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes, and then stuck out her hand.

"Hello, I'm Stella Fowler," she said smoothly, her voice crisp and clipped. "And this -"

He tried to listen, he really, really wanted to, except the man walking into the room behind Stella Fowler almost took his breath away. He knew that was ridiculously overblown, but he couldn't even get words out. The man was tall, about the same height as Fraser, and was wearing a leather jacket and jeans and boots. His short blond hair was spiked up, and there was a wicked grin on his stubbled face.

Oh dear.

"- is my fiancé, Ray Kowalski. Ray?" She sounded slightly impatient, dropping Fraser's hand, and Ray quickly stepped in and closed the door behind him, sticking out his hand.

"Ray Kowalski. We talked on the phone?" Fraser could tell that Ray was trying not to smile, probably to avoid the wrath of his fiancée, but there was a smile in his voice. Fraser reached out for Ray's hand and grasped it firmly, feeling the warm, calloused skin, his firm handshake.

"Ah - yes. Um. I'm -" God, he really did sound like a blubbering idiot. "Ben Fraser. Nice to meet you."

Ray quirked up one of his eyebrows before letting go of Fraser's hand, perhaps holding a little longer than was considered normal among American (and Canadian, for that matter) men. Fraser felt himself shiver, and heat shoot down his spine.

"Nice to meet you, Stella, Ray. Would you care to sit down?" Stella nodded, and Ray smiled again, and Fraser was suddenly very, very glad for the shield his desk would provide when he sat down. He sat down and faced them, Stella smoothing her hair back from her face, Ray crossing one ankle over his knee. Fraser noticed the large diamond ring on Stella’s left ring finger, sparkling under the overhead office lights.

Fraser reached out and pushed the folders closer to Ray and Stella. "I took the liberty of making some sample menus for you, at various price levels. I provide passed hors d'oeuvres and a five-course served meal. I can also contract out with a bakery for the cake, or you can choose one on your own. There's a copy of my resume in the folder, if you'd like to read about my experience in more detail, Stella." He smiled at her, and she grinned back. More open than he'd expected after talking to her on the phone, and she’d relaxed since she walked in the room. She was a State's Attorney, and had clearly used her courtroom interrogation skills in their previous conversation. "Please, go ahead and take a few minutes before you let me know what you think."

"Thank you, Ben," Stella said, and Ray just looked up briefly before opening the folder and reading carefully. Fraser sat back in his chair and let them review the materials. He had a pretty good idea what a woman like Stella would want, and he figured she'd choose the most attractive, most expensive package in the folder. Fraser was curious to see if he'd judged her properly. So much of this business was reading the clients and hoping that you pegged them correctly. When you did, it was much easier to give them what they wanted.

It was quiet for a few moments, then Ray muttered, "Jesus," and looked up suddenly. He was holding up the paper upon which was printed Fraser's resume. "Don't take this the wrong way, Ben, but what the hell are you doing catering our wedding? It looks like you could be the next Wolfgang Puck or something." Ray sounded almost accusatory, and he was shaking the resume in the space between himself and Fraser.

"Ray's right, Ben - you really downplayed your experience when we spoke on the phone," Stella said, examining his resume closely. "Three years at the Canadian Culinary Institute, Assistant Chef at a number of restaurants in Edmonton, four years at the Culinary Institute of America. I don't know a lot about cooking, but you seem quite accomplished."

Fraser could feel his face getting hot. "Well, thank you kindly." There seemed to be quite a few of these moments that happened with his more wealthy or savvy clients, who seemed to understand his experience and wanted to know why he was a caterer in Chicago, of all things. It was a story that he wasn't going to tell to any client. It was what it was.

"Yeah, Ben, how the hell did you end up here?"

Fraser closed his eyes briefly, and then looked back at them both, smiling. He took a deep breath. "I taught at the CIA for several years, and, for reasons that don't need exploring at this juncture, I came to Chicago to stay with a friend and remained, deciding to open up a catering business."

Stella shot a quick smile back at him, then buried her face in the menus again, pulling them out and reading them one by one. She was clearly uninterested in hearing much more about Fraser's life, but Ray just stared back, squinting slightly, like he didn't believe a word Fraser was saying. With Stella absorbed, Fraser foolishly let himself look back, and Ray's eyes softened after a few moments, the corners of his mouth turning up. Fraser knew it was stupid but he couldn't stop himself from smiling. It felt like the temperature in the room was rising, and he was getting hard behind his desk. Ray's tongue came out slowly and licked along his bottom lip, and Fraser could almost feel it, his hand coming up involuntarily to touch his own lip -

"Okay," Stella said suddenly, and they broke their eye contact, and Fraser dropped his hand down quickly and cleared his throat. Ray grinned and slouched back in the chair, and if Fraser didn't know any better, he might say that Ray was _flirting_ with him. Which didn't make any sense at all. "I want this one. What do you think, Ray?" Stella held out the menu that she'd chosen, which, sure enough, was the one that Fraser expected her to choose, and Ray took a cursory glance before nodding.

"Sounds good, Stel. You're the boss."

"This one, then," Stella said, smiling and handing the menu to Fraser. "So, should we schedule a tasting?"

Fraser had never gone through the motions so quickly, getting Stella and Ray booked in for two weeks from Thursday for their tasting, taking down some more of their information. When he finally escorted them through the door, Ray looked back as they walked down the hall, smiling back at Fraser. Fraser quickly closed the door and leaned back against it, sighing.

This was ridiculous. That man was engaged, probably had no idea the effect he was having on Fraser, and Fraser knew better than to let himself go to that place. He'd learned that lesson the hard way more than once. Fraser sighed, and walked slowly back to his desk, the sound of the rush hour train rumbling by outside the window.

* * *

_October 14, 1983  
Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island_

Things at the Culinary Institute of Canada are as good as can be expected, I suppose. Charlottetown is very different than any place I have ever lived, and I confess to finding it quite difficult. Even after living in Edmonton for several years, I find Atlantic Canada to be somewhat stifling, the scale rather small. Edmonton is a much larger city than Charlottetown, but there was a wildness about it, and just outside the city was the largeness that I craved. Here, I feel almost trapped on this island, and there seem to be people no matter where I go. There is no way to get away, other than by the ferry. I am unused to being able to being stuck, and it is trying.

My studies are going quite well, and I am enjoying my Canadian Cuisine course and Stocks, Soups, and Sauces. Many of my classmates have restaurant experience, so I am spending a lot of time in the kitchen just trying to catch up, but it is worth it. I feel that I have found what I was meant to do. I hope to stay on after I get my diploma to do the course in Pastry Arts as well.

My father called last week, and I could tell he was still disappointed that I did not decide to join the RCMP, as he had always wanted. I think he still held out hope that I would do so after graduating from university, even though my degree was in Canadian Literature. I know that I cannot expect to satisfy him, but I hope that I will be successful at becoming a chef, and that he will be proud of me, someday.

* * *

The days leading up to the Fowler/Kowalski tasting were not some of Fraser's proudest. Every time he saw the appointment on his schedule on the computer, he felt his heart race and his palms get sweaty, and he felt like a teenager getting ready for his first date. The big difference was that Fraser was _not_ dating Ray. In fact, he was catering Ray's wedding, and he would be wise to remember that fact.

Thursday rolled around, and at 3 p.m. Fraser was waiting, sitting on his hands to keep from moving nervously. Then, a knock came at the door, and Fraser took a deep breath and went to open it. When the door swung open, Ray was standing, framed in the doorway. Stella was nowhere to be seen.

"Hello, Ray," Fraser said, smiling in a way that he was sure looked ridiculous. "Is Stella on her way?"

Ray smiled back and walked through the door. He still looked wonderful - long limbs and gravity-defying hair and quick smile. "Uh, nope. She got called into court about an hour ago. She's gonna try to make it, but I'm not counting on it."

"Well, we could reschedule, if you'd like." Which was really much more difficult than it sounded, considering the food that he had painstakingly brought into the office on the El from his apartment.

"No, no, it's fine," Ray said, settling down in the chair in front of the desk. "Stella said to go ahead. That she _trusts_ me.” Ray snorted. “Right. Anyway, let's do this, okay?"

Fraser was at a loss. He hadn't planned to be alone with Ray, and all of the silly things he had been feeling when he met Ray for the first time came flooding back. He was losing the ability to string together sentences and keep from stammering like a fool. "Yes, well - then. I'll just get -"

He hurried over to the other side of the room, to the table against the wall under the window where the containers were, keeping some of the food hot and some of the food cold. Fraser was thankful for the small favor of the placement of the table against the wall, which allowed him to turn and hide the creeping flush on his face. He arranged all of the samples on the tray and brought them back over to the desk. He sat down in the chair next to Ray, where Stella had sat the last time they were here, the last time he felt normal before Ray Kowalski started taking his walls down without even knowing it.

"Ready?"

Ray leaned forward, pressing his palms against his knees. "I was born ready, Ben."

Fraser was becoming increasingly convinced that this might kill him. "All right, then. This?" Fraser picked up the first item off the tray. "Is a porcini mushroom and shallot quiche with bacon." He extended his hand across the space between his chair and Ray's, but Ray didn't move his hands. Instead, he opened his mouth, almost daring Fraser. This didn't make any sense, and Fraser just wanted to leave, run down the crowded street, and stay forever, all at the same time.

Taking what felt like the tenth deep breath since Ray walked in the door, Fraser moved the quiche past Ray's lips and into his mouth, and letting go and pulling back before he felt the press of Ray's lips on his fingers. Ray chewed slowly, taking his time, and then swallowed.

"Wow, Ben. That's - that was really, really good. I guess your all-star resume didn't lie, huh?"

Fraser turned back and picked up the next item, his hands shaking slightly. He didn't know what to say. "This is a raspberry brie tartlet." He was hoping Ray would stop, but he opened his mouth again, waiting to see if Fraser would bail. This time, Fraser was bolder, letting his fingers brush against Ray's lips, which were soft and full to the touch, as he pulled his hand away. He wasn't sure what Ray was playing at, exactly, but he wasn't going to be the one who backed down.

It was too good.

This time, Ray hummed, and groaned a little, and Fraser felt his jeans tighten across his groin. At this point, he wouldn't put it past Ray to be purposefully provoking him, and he bit his own lip to keep from responding, and crossed his legs carefully.

"That's really good, too," Ray said, licking his lips.

After that, it was one sample after another. Bacon-wrapped scallops. Shrimp in phyllo with boursin. Lobster and crab salad with avocado. Finally, Fraser picked up the last of the samples, the main course. Ray was smiling, leaning forward into Fraser's personal space, complimenting each sample. "This is a black angus filet mignon with a port wine reduction and gorgonzola," Fraser said softly, and Ray closed his eyes as Fraser reached out to place the small slice of beef on Ray's tongue. "The main course."

"Christ," Ray said, as Fraser started to pull his hand away, afraid of what he would do otherwise. Ray was chewing slowly, almost sensually, and reaching out to grasp at Fraser's hand, to hold him close. Ray brought Fraser's hand up to his face, pressing Fraser's fingertips to his lips as he chewed and swallowed. Fraser knew he should stop, but his head was swimming, and all of the blood in his brain had gone decidedly south. He was having trouble doing anything but gaping at the blissed-out look of Ray's face. "That, Ben? Is amazing."

Ray blinked his eyes open, and then, like the spell was broken, he dropped Fraser's wrist and leaned back in his chair. Fraser realized that his own breathing was coming fast, and he tried to relax, pressing his own palms into his thighs. "I'm glad you enjoyed it. I hope that Stella will be pleased with it as well."

Fraser had somehow managed to forget that this man sitting next to him was getting married, in three months' time, to a beautiful and successful woman, and it seemed like Ray might have forgotten too. They hadn't done anything unforgivable, but Fraser wasn't sure that he would have been able to hold out much longer.

Ray sighed and closed his eyes, looking altogether different than he had a few moments before. "I'm sure she'll love it." He paused. "Listen, Ben, I'm - I don't know -" Ray pressed his palms to his eyes.

"It's fine, Ray. Really. Think nothing of it."

Ray breathed out what could only be described as a sigh of relief. "Okay. Okay, greatness. So, uh, I'll have Stella give you a call?"

"Yes, and we'll take care of all the details for the contract and payment then. Not a problem."

"Okay. Well, thanks, Ben. I'll see you?" Ray looked at him with a hopeful expression, and even though Fraser thought it would probably be best for his livelihood and his sanity if he never saw Ray Kowalski again, at least not until the wedding, he couldn't help himself. He'd never said he was that strong.

"Yes. You will."

* * *

_August 14, 1987  
Edmonton, Alberta_

It feels good to be back in Edmonton. While Edmonton is certainly still far from home, it feels much more like home than Charlottetown ever did. I am working as a sous chef in La Boheme, which is quite an admirable post for someone right out of culinary school. I live in a small apartment, rather unspectacular, a few blocks north of 101. I have reconnected with some of my acquaintances from university, and the city is everything I remember it being. Large. Noisy. My adopted home.

I am enjoying working in a restaurant. The pace is quick, but I am keeping up, and enjoying the challenge of having to think on my feet. I don't think that the assistant chef likes me very much, but I think that may have something to do with how well the head chef seems to regard me. I shouldn't blame him, since I do hope to have his job someday soon.

In other news, I found a stray puppy on the street outside of my building the other day. He looks nothing like any dog I've ever seen, somewhat like a sled dog from back north, I suppose. I don't really have the room for a dog, and I'm not sure if my landlord approves, but I couldn't leave him out on the street like that, not after he barked after that young man who tried to steal my dinner that I'd brought home from the restaurant.

* * *

The knock on the door shook Fraser out of his daze and got him to his feet. He should have been preparing menus and estimates for his 2:30 appointment with Caroline Davis and Peter Schlein, but when he looked at his computer screen, there was nothing but a blank template and a cursor, just blinking and mocking him.

He'd like to say that the previous month had been much better, but in reality he had spent most of his free time (and a great deal of his work time too) thinking about Ray leaned in close, right inside Fraser's personal space. The feeling of Ray's lips against his fingertips. The sounds Ray made as he tasted sample after sample of the food that Fraser had made. The sounds like Fraser imagined he'd made when -

Someone knocked again, and Fraser sighed and moved toward the door, knowing what was waiting on the other side and willing himself to stay calm.

He pulled the door open, and faced the smile of Stella Fowler, who looked a little bit harried, but clearly had no idea that she was facing the man whom her fiancé had tried to seduce - or something like it - several weeks before. "Hello, Ben," she said, pushing her way inside and dropping her leather briefcase next to the desk, flopping down in the chair and sighing audibly.

"Good afternoon, Stella," he answered, and Ray was right behind her, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets, and a somewhat pained smile on his face. "Ray," Fraser said, trying to calm his rapidly beating heart at just the sight of Ray, who was every bit what Fraser remembered, which was very much _not_ a good thing.

"Hey there, Ben. Listen, I - I wanted to talk to you -" Ray's eyes were cast down to the floor, and he kept his voice quiet enough.

“Ray, come sit down. I have to be back in the office soon,” Stella said, almost sharply, turning around and looking at them both.

Fraser kept his voice pitched low. "Ray, let's go sign the contract for your wedding reception, shall we?" Ray looked up suddenly, and Fraser wanted to turn away from the half-desperate, half-pained look on Ray's face. He had barely spent an hour with this man, and he had no explanation of how he felt except for the fact that not a moment had gone by since Ray Kowalski walked into his office for the first time that he hadn't thought about Ray. And now, he was going to be there the day Ray got married and perhaps officially became the most inappropriate object of Fraser's affections ever.

"Okay. Okay," Ray said, shouldering past Fraser and walking to the desk, and Fraser pushed the door closed behind him. There was nothing to say that wasn't already obvious.

He rounded his desk and pulled out the file folder labeled "Kowalski/Fowler" from the drawer and took out the contract, with prices and menus and everything in order.

"It's going to be a lovely wedding," Fraser said, and Stella smiled back, reaching for the contract and bringing it closer to read it carefully, as Fraser had expected she would before signing her name to it. He watched her, but he could feel Ray watching him, his eyes never leaving Fraser's face, but Fraser couldn't look back. He was afraid of what he might do if he did.

* * *

_January 15, 1990  
Edmonton, Alberta_

I hadn't hoped that it would happen, because my application for the position was on a whim of sorts, but today I received a letter from the Culinary Institute of America offering me a two-year teaching position, with the option to renew. While I am not particularly keen on moving to the States, this is an opportunity that I can't pass up. To teach at one of the most prestigious culinary programs in the world is a great honor.

Margaret Thatcher, the dean of the faculty, contacted me and told me that they were impressed by my winning the Silver Bocuse two years ago, at such a young age, and that I was highly recommended by Michel Dasteyer, who was one of my instructors at the CIC. I must admit that Dean Thatcher seems like quite a demanding woman, but I look forward to teaching regardless.

I gave notice at Jacques last week, and Henri wished me the best of luck at the CIA. I am not looking forward to packing all of my things and moving south again, but it promises to be a rewarding experience. And Diefenbaker is quite excited, because he has heard wonderful things about the donuts in New York.

* * *

"We're out of quiche!"

Fraser flinched as Francesca came back into the kitchen like a whirlwind, bumping into Fraser's side as he put the caviar on the quail eggs. She stuck the tray in front of him and put her hand on her hip. "Frase, did you hear me? We're out of quiche, and people are starting to get antsy."

"Yes, I heard you. They're in the oven - perhaps another minute?" It was at this precise moment, every single time he catered an event, especially a wedding, that made him feel like he was going mad. A dozen wait staff buzzing in and out of the kitchen. Turnbull moaning about his imperfect lobster salad and how it had disgraced Fraser's vision for what had to be close to an hour. Francesca pretending that she was accidentally rubbing up against him every time she came in to refill her tray.

And to make matters even worse, this was the wedding of the man who had been fodder for Fraser's baser fantasies for months. In fact, he was already married, and this was just the celebration.

Fraser thought it might be nice to throw himself off of a cliff, actually. A very high one.

Then, the timer beeped, and Fraser shuffled over to the oven, pulled the tray out, and used the tongs tucked into his apron to place the quiche on the platter. "There. Go on."

"Thanks, Frase," Francesca said, smiling and sashaying back out. If only Fraser could focus his romantic attentions on a more appropriate object, like Francesca. Instead of a formerly-engaged-now-married, most likely heterosexual man.

The pace slowed down once the hors d'oeuvres were finished, and dinner was being served. Everything was prepped and the wait staff was serving, and Fraser breathed out a deep sigh of relief and leaned against the wall. He hadn't emerged once from the kitchen, and usually he tried to at least peek out once or twice, to make sure everything was going smoothly, but he simply couldn't. He had no idea what he would do if he saw Ray, which he undoubtedly would.

He sank into a chair and listened as the band leader, Huey (Fraser knew pretty much all of the wedding bands in the city by now) told everyone it was time to cut the cake, and then smiled as Huey tried to shush his bass player, Dewey, to keep him from making a most inappropriate comment. It never failed.

Fraser just listened to the music, drifting faintly underneath the door, and finally he decided that it was time to grow up and face the music, literally and figuratively, so he swung open the kitchen door and let his eyes focus on the dance floor.

And there, pressed close, were Ray and Stella. Stella was a vision in a strapless white satin gown that just brushed the floor, her long, sleek blond hair twisted on her head. Ray was wearing a tux, looking long and lean, and he was - Fraser had to swallow hard and clench his hands into fists, because Ray was beautiful. In a way that Fraser wasn't sure he would ever think another person was again.

It seemed that Ray and Stella could really dance, too, and they moved together gracefully and easily, gliding along the floor, Ray leaning down to whisper something in Stella's ear and Stella's face lighting up as she laughed in response. They looked very much in love.

Fraser really was a rather enormous fool.

He turned back to the kitchen, letting the door shut behind him, and started to pack up his things. Utensils and trays and leftover ingredients that he would send home with Francesca or Turnbull, because Fraser never wanted to cook after an event. He loaded up his arms and started to make his way toward the back door and Turnbull's car in the parking lot.

"Ben?" A familiar voice came from behind him, just as he stepped out of the kitchen, and he knew what would be in front of him when he turned around.

"Congratulations, Ray," Fraser said softly, taking in Ray's undone tie hanging around his shoulders, his dress shirt half untucked, his blue eyes darting down to the floor.

"Listen, I just wanted to thank you. Today was amazing, and I know you don't want me to apologize. For before. But goddamn it, Ben, I am sorry. I shouldn't have done that, and I don't even have a clue why I did, even. But it was completely not okay, and I'm sorry," Ray said, sounding pained and guilty.

Fraser was aware that Ray had moved closer, almost standing right next to him now, and he was grateful for the shield of the stacks of trays he was holding.

"Really, it's okay. I haven't thought about it, and you shouldn't either." It was a completely appalling lie, and the tilt of Ray's head, just a little to the left, let Fraser know that Ray saw right through it.

Ray nodded, and stepped back, just a little. "Yeah. Okay then, Ben. Maybe I'll see you around?" Ray's eyes were hopeful, but Fraser's got caught on the gold band on Ray's left hand.

"Perhaps." And then he turned away, knowing that this may very well be the last time he ever saw Ray Kowalski. Chicago was a big city, and it was easy to get lost in it.

* * *

_August 14, 1994  
Hyde Park, NY_

The semester begins in a couple of weeks, and I am engrossed in my lesson plans for the semester already. This term, I am teaching Beginning Pastry and an Advanced Sauces course for final semester students. While the summer has been filled with several cooking competitions with friends, as well as working in the CIA restaurant, I must confess that I missed my students dearly. I am looking forward to some returners in the Sauces course, and several students stayed on for the Pastry Arts certificate.

Several new faculty members arrived last week, and Dean Thatcher held a reception for all faculty in their honor. I had the great pleasure of meeting Victoria Metcalf, who is a distinguished head chef from Cezanne in Vancouver and quite well known in culinary circles, who is serving as a visiting professor in French Culinary Technique for the year. She is a fascinating woman with a great deal of experience and reputation, and I look forward to working with her.

I must say, she is also a very attractive woman, and I am thinking I may ask her to join me for dinner at my apartment some night soon. Even if Diefenbaker does not approve.

* * *

Fraser lived in a small walk-up on West 15th Street and Halstead. It was a fairly nice neighborhood, getting nicer by the day, and much more posh than his first apartment when he'd moved to Chicago with his tail between his legs. Mark wouldn't even visit him at the place on West Racine because the neighborhood was so seedy, but Fraser hadn't minded it. In a year, his business was doing well and he was catering weddings for many well-to-do Chicagoans. At Mark's urging, when he called from Edmonton and Calgary and Detroit, asking if Fraser had been shot yet and when he was going to get a new place, Fraser had found this apartment and moved himself, his two bags, his box of books, and Diefenbaker to the shadow of UIC.

It was an ideal location - Fraser often, at the end of a long Saturday working, would walk to Greektown and take in late night dolmas and spanikopita and baklava. On some weekday mornings, when he had no appointments and no events, he would walk the couple of blocks to campus and spend the majority of the day reading books on Roman war history and feminist theory and abstract art.

It was in those moments that Fraser almost believed he was happy, in Chicago. Where he could forget how much it had hurt to leave behind his teaching career, where he could forget that he didn't even have the consolation of the wide-open ice fields to comfort him.

And every Sunday there wasn't a wedding, which was maybe once a month, Fraser walked the handful of blocks from his small, sunny apartment, Diefenbaker at his heels, to Canal Street, to the Maxwell Street Market. It was an unusual place, where you could get power tools or Polish sausage or fresh produce, and he loved it. He'd stay the morning, choosing produce from the vendors for his weekly meals and eating some truly amazing empanadas from the young Mexican woman who always smiled slowly at Fraser when she handed him his change. He always smiled back despite the rising color on her cheeks.

He was savoring the last fleeting moments of the tender spiced beef on his tongue, leaning over a box of heirloom tomatoes in the scorching August sun, when he thought he heard something. Diefenbaker was licking his chops, because Marilinda had a soft spot for him as well, and when Fraser turned around to see if anyone was there, Diefenbaker looked at him as if he was seeing things.

"Ben." He heard his name again, and suddenly, from behind the crowds of faces, he caught a glimpse of dark blue eyes and spiked golden hair, mouth turned up in a smile. Fraser could hear himself breathing, echoing in his ears, and all at once he wanted to flee.

Except that was nothing like what he wanted to do when he saw Ray Kowalski.

"Hello, Ray," he said, feeling his own mouth move to smile, almost involuntarily.

Ray's hands were dirty, covered in something that Fraser thought looked like engine grease, and he was holding a part of a car, in Fraser's best estimation. A carburetor, maybe? "Hey, long time no see. How are you?"

The words were right at the tip of Fraser's tongue, and he wanted to tell Ray how he was. That he'd been going from waking up in the middle of the night to jerk off desperately into the city semi-quiet of his bedroom, thinking about Ray's mouth on his fingers, to being so angry at Ray for giving him a taste of something - literally - that Fraser was under no circumstances allowed to have, and making him want what he very well knew he could not have, and then getting married, of all things. But all he said, "I'm well, and you?"

Ray's empty hand was dirty, but Fraser could still make out the glint of his wedding ring as he gestured in the air. "Good. It's - I'm good. I didn't - I wasn't sure I'd see you again. You live around here?"

"Yes, Diefenbaker and I," He down to where Diefenbaker was panting, his tongue lolling, "live over on West 15th, near the university. Do you and Stella live nearby?"

Ray laughed, a great, open sound that made Fraser almost step away, even though he wanted to lean forward. "Oh, Christ, no. We've got a condo up on the Gold Coast, off Michigan. Stella wouldn't have it any other way. I grew up in Pilsen . I like to come down here sometimes, even though it looks nothing like it did when I was kid. Still good Polish sausage, though." Ray was smiling still, and Fraser could feel himself warming up, and slipping again, and this was so very, very dangerous.

"I just realized that I never asked you what you do. Are you a mechanic?" Fraser asked, gesturing to the car part in Ray's grease-smeared hand.

"Oh, no, I'm a detective. At the 19th precinct. Major crimes. This is just my hobby." Ray tossed the part from one hand to the other.

Fraser nodded, and then the conversation stopped. They just stood there, the crowds folding in around them, Ray's eyes never leaving his, Ray’s mouth slightly parted like he wanted to say something or _do_ something, but he didn't. Fraser wasn't sure how much time had passed before he cleared his throat, and the sounds of voices closed back in on his ears.

"Well, I should be going. It was really lovely to see you, Ray. Please give my best to Stella." Fraser reached down to pick up a really lovely enormous Pineapple tomato, contenting himself with the feel of its skin beneath his hand to keep himself from turning to touch Ray.

"See you around, Ben." And with that, Ray was gone.

* * *

_February 15, 1995  
Hyde Park, NY_

Last night, Victoria and I celebrated Valentine's Day and the six-month anniversary of our first dinner together (glazed duck breasts with saffron rice and swiss chard). Victoria offered to cook, which no reasonable person would turn down. It was a lovely meal, and afterwards, I went to remove the white chocolate cheesecake I made from the refrigerator when I found several strange-looking boxes inside. Victoria was in the other room, choosing some dessert wine and music, lighting candles, and I decided to just take a look and see what was inside the one of them.

It was full of white abalone. Which is highly endangered and illegal, although much sought after for the dinner tables of the very, very wealthy.

I managed to get through the remainder of the evening, but I think that Victoria suspected that something was wrong. I must confess that I am at a loss about what to do. I love her, and under any other circumstances, I would turn her in, but I'm not sure I can do that. But I also don't think that I can pretend that I didn't see it. Maybe I will talk to her and see if she has some sort of explanation.

* * *

It was September, the tail-end of wedding season in Chicago, and Fraser had been working every day of every weekend. Turnbull was near mental collapse, making Fraser feel nearly as crazy. Fraser had almost snapped at Francesca when her hand had grazed against his rear end right before the dinner started at the O'Neill/Jackson reception. It had been a trying month, to say the least, especially when almost every night, when he closed his eyes to sleep, he saw Ray's slow smile behind them, his quick, grease-covered hands. His wedding band.

He hadn't slept properly in weeks. Months even. The signs pointed to a completely ridiculous and juvenile infatuation with a man with whom he had spent one tortuous hour alone, and the rest of the few hours had been shared by his very beautiful and brilliant wife.

Fraser needed a distraction, and it came in the form of a Thursday night preseason Oilers/Blackhawks game at the United Center. He pushed through the crowds, even buying a Molson's at the concession stand before he made his way up to his seat in section 318, which was high above the ice, but center, and sat down, waiting for the warm ups to end and the game to start. Hockey always helped.

The seat to Fraser's left was empty, until about two minutes after the puck was dropped and someone started climbing over the legs in the aisle and dropped down heavily in the seat next to Fraser, his beer sloshing menacingly. Fraser turned his head, and almost spilled his own drink.

"Ray," he said, almost choking on the name in his throat.

"Holy shit, Ben. What are the odds, huh?" Ray turned a little in his seat and clapped his free hand on Fraser's shoulder. "I didn't know you were a Hawks fan."

"Oh, well, I'm not," Fraser answered, lowering his voice, just a little. "I'm an Oilers fan. I lived in Edmonton for many years. And my childhood friend Mark Smithbauer plays for the Blackhawks."

"Smithbauer? No kidding. So you're Canadian, huh? I wondered about the whole flannel shirt, good grammar, Aurora Borealis thing." Ray gestured at Fraser's shirt.

"Yes, I grew up in the Yukon and the Northwest Territories, and moved to Edmonton for university. I lived there again after culinary school. Well, you've seen my resume, at any rate." It was strange - Ray having seen his whole professional life laid out on a piece of paper seemed almost unbearably intimate, where he'd never really thought of it as an exposure before. Ray knew where he had gone to school and where he worked and taught, and he was a detective; he might be able to read between the lines. Read into all the mistakes that Fraser had ever made.

"Yeah, I've seen it," Ray said carefully, and Fraser turned his gaze back to the ice, trying his best to ignore Ray's penetrating stares every few minutes.

At first intermission, Ray hopped up and offered to bring back hot dogs. Fraser just nodded and tried to hand Ray some money, which he refused with a wave and disappeared. Fraser wouldn’t normally eat a United Center hot dog, but he couldn’t turn down Ray’s offer, not when paired with that smile. When he came back, they ate in companionable silence, Ray's leg pressed up against Fraser's. And it stayed there, through the remainder of the game, and Fraser could feel his face getting hot and his pants getting tight, and he hated so much feeling this helplessness. Even though he really did not want to move away.

Afterwards, they spilled out onto the sidewalk with the rest of the crowd. Fraser was about to try to slip away, unnoticed, when Ray's hand clasped his wrist, gently but firmly, holding him close. "Listen, Ben. I - can I see you again? Can we go to dinner or something?" Ray said hopefully.

Fraser wanted to, but Ray was a married man, and Fraser wanted to make a sensible choice when it came to his heart, for once in his life. "I don't think that's wise, Ray.”

Just like that, Ray's hand was gone, and Fraser's wrist felt cold in a way he hadn't experienced chill since he'd moved south, more than fifteen years ago. Ray looked lost. "Yeah, okay, Ben. I get it. Goodbye, then," he said, resigned.

"Goodbye." Fraser decided to skip the train, and walked the all of the way back to his apartment, chilly in the late September night air.

* * *

_March 3, 1995  
Hyde Park, NY_

Everything is just such a complete mess that I don't know where to start. I decided to approach Victoria about the white abalone, to try to give her an opportunity to explain, but she was completely unreasonable and didn't want to speak calmly to me about it. She accused me of trying to sabotage her career and being jealous of her, which is simply not true.

She left me no choice but to go to Dean Thatcher, which I did not want to have to do, but smuggling white abalone is unacceptable, especially for a chef, who should work to protect endangered food. I don't know why Victoria would do such a thing, except for the money, but obviously she is not the person I believed she was.

Dean Thatcher promised to look into my accusations immediately, but I made a fatal error in speaking to Victoria first. She covered up everything quickly, and told Dean Thatcher about our relationship and my supposed jealousy of her career.

I have been excused from my position at the CIA. Dean Thatcher has allowed me to stay through the semester, for which I am grateful, but Victoria must have called in any number of favors, because all of my inquiries into teaching or restaurant positions elsewhere have been politely declined. It seems that I have been blacklisted from the culinary world. My star has fallen, very quickly.

I will finish out the semester, but then, I have no idea. I have not been back north in almost two years, since my father's funeral. Mark says I should come to Chicago, that I can stay with him and open a restaurant or a catering business. I don't know what to do. I thought I'd be here for much longer.

* * *

That morning, Fraser woke up to the slight winter chill in his apartment. He pulled the blankets up high around his shoulders, before sighing at Diefenbaker's whimpers and swinging his feet to the floor.

The walk to the park that morning was brisk and sunny, and Diefenbaker took off running, tongue wagging, at the sight of the open grass and the trees. Fraser took the opportunity to sit on the bench and watch, pulling his worn-in leather jacket around him to fend off the cold.

His mind was swimming, and, for the first time in a while, he was thinking of Victoria. The way she smiled at him, the way her thick, dark curls felt threaded through his fingers. The way she crushed his career and his _life_ in the palm of her hand.

Fraser wondered where she was now. If she was still at the CIA. Still smuggling endangered foods. Maybe she had found someone else's heart to break.

He looked up to where Diefenbaker had been, but he was no longer running. Instead, he was standing next to a figure, several hundred feet away, who was hunched down and talking to him. Fraser stood up and walked toward them. The closer he got, the more certain he became, and sure enough, it was Ray, burying his hands in Diefenbaker's fur and digging in the grass to find a stick to toss.

"I'm beginning to think you're following me," Fraser said, smiling a little, as Ray startled and looked up.

"Hey, Ben. I’m surprised to see you! I was in the neighborhood, and I recognized the mutt."

"It's okay." Ray moved his hand, clutching a small stick, and Fraser noticed the pale line on his finger, where his wedding band had been the last time Fraser had seen him. He quickly looked away, and tried to ignore how hard his heart was pounding. "How are you?"

Ray sighed and brushed the dirt off of his jeans. "Okay. I'm okay. Things are - well, they're okay. Stella and I are in kind of a rough patch, but we can handle it."

"Marriage is a careful negotiation," Fraser said, watching as Ray sent the stick flying, Diefenbaker bounding after it.

"What, you've been married?"

"Ah," Fraser said, a bit embarrassed. "It's just something my father used to say."

"Your father's a smart guy, Ben,” Ray said, his hands coming back down to rest on his own hips, his lips turned up at the corner.

"Yes. He was."

Diefenbaker was back, the stick between his teeth, and he let Ray remove it from his jaws. He seemed to really take to Ray, not all that unlike Fraser himself. Ray took the stick again, throwing it, and Diefenbaker took off, running fast.

It was silent for a moment, comfortably so, both of their eyes cast far out to where Diefenbaker was picking up the stick to come back. Fraser looked out of the corner of his eye at Ray, who looked like there were more lines around his eyes than last time Fraser had seen them.

“Ray,” Fraser said, turning toward Ray. He noticed that they were very close, not more than a few inches away from each other. “Did you know –“

Then, Ray was right there, his hands coming out to rest on Fraser’s waist. Fraser knew it was stupid, but his own arms came up around Ray’s back as Ray leaned in and pressed his hips to Fraser’s. He had forgotten what he was going to say.

Every single thing that Fraser had been holding back about this man, who he knew so little about and yet wanted so very much, came flooding back. He clutched Ray tightly as he slid his tongue past Ray's lips to taste his mouth, and it was exactly like he thought Ray would taste, since that day in his office. Ray was holding him tightly, and it was so good. It was perfect.

Then, suddenly, it was like Fraser couldn't breathe, and he could see Victoria's face behind his closed eyes, and that was enough for him to push Ray away, as gently as possible. "Jesus, Ben," Ray said, his voice ragged and his lips wet. Fraser wanted to kiss him again.

"Ray. I just - you're - and I can't, not again. It’s not right."

He left Ray standing there in the middle of the park on a late October afternoon, the wind blowing like winter was coming, and he could feel Diefenbaker following close behind. It was one of the hardest things he'd ever done, but he had to do it. It was already bad enough that he was fairly certain that he was in love with a married man. There was no way he could possibly act on it.

He felt trapped, like the streets and the building and the lake were collapsing in on him, and he couldn't breathe.

* * *

_October 27, 1996  
Chicago, Illinois_

I've been keeping mostly to my apartment, for fear that I will run into Ray again, since he seems to be in my neighborhood often. Diefenbaker is furious with me on account of the lack of walks to the park, so he has been whining until I leave the fire escape window open for him to come and go when he pleases. I think that Ray has been trying to see me, and considering that he is not wearing his wedding ring, I think it is wise if I stay away from him. For both of our sakes.

A letter came for me in the mail yesterday, from Northern Lights College in Dawson Creek, British Columbia. They have the northernmost culinary program in the Canada, and are not prestigious enough to have been caught in Victoria's widespread net. I had applied for a position as an assistant professor of culinary arts, teaching mostly French and Canadian technique, and they have offered me a temporary position while one of their professors is out on maternity leave, with the expectation of something more permanent next fall.

I think it is time for me to leave Chicago. It has become stifling, and I miss teaching terribly. The catering business is fast-paced and interesting, and certainly lucrative, but still - I miss teaching. I can always cater in Dawson Creek if I decide that I miss that, as well. I know that Mark will want me to stay, and I have grown fond of the city, but I think it's time for me to move on. This opportunity has come to me for a reason, and I would be silly to pass it up.

I guess it's time to start packing my things. Again.

* * *

It only took Fraser three weeks to find temporary housing in Dawson Creek, which he did over the phone with a real estate agent. Dawson Creek was actually a large city, for that part of Canada, and the start of the Alaska Highway. Fraser had some money put away from the catering business, and thought about looking for a house once he'd been in Dawson Creek for a while. Maybe a cabin, somewhere outside of town.

The Blackhawks were on a home stand to start the season, and Mark came over to help Fraser pack and clean his apartment. He'd vacated his office the week before, and sent his office things to Dawson Creek, not sure if he would need them when he got there. Well, actually, Mark did not so much help as sit on Fraser's bed while Fraser packed. He was flying out in three days.

"I wish you wouldn't go, Ben. I like having you in town," Mark said, almost pouting and taking a sip of his beer.

"That's all fine and well," Fraser said, stacking his clothes in a box, "but you're never in town, and I hardly see you anyway, even when you are. Besides, this is a teaching job, Mark. I never thought I'd teach again."

"That fucking bitch."

Fraser laughed. "I'd chide you for your language, but I can't think of a better way to put it myself."

He hugged Mark goodbye fiercely that night, and he promised to try to come to see him when he was in Edmonton or Vancouver, and Mark could come up in the summers, if he wanted. Fraser would miss him, but he had to do this. Everything was telling him to go, that he needed to get out of the city and get away from where he could run into Ray on the street or in the market or at the park. Diefenbaker needed wide-open fields to run in, and no more regular access to donuts and Mexican food. It was time for Fraser to get back to his life, the life he wanted.

Even if it meant being alone.

His belongings shipped out on a Saturday, and on Monday morning, he dropped his keys downstairs with his landlord, and went outside to hail a taxi to O'Hare, one that would let Diefenbaker ride in the car. He watched out of the window of the taxi as they drove away from UIC, away from the lake, speeding down the Kennedy Expressway away from the city, away from this life.

Fraser would miss Chicago. It was almost like it was part of who he was, his soul, and he wouldn't lose that, but it was only one part of him. The rest of him was in the open spaces and the bitter cold and the rhythms of Inuvialuktun on the streets. Dawson Creek was as close as he could get to that and still have the things he so desperately wanted.

Or almost everything.

He turned his face straight ahead, and didn't look back at the city. Not again.

* * *

_November 24, 1996  
Dawson Creek, British Columbia_

I just left my afternoon French Technique class, and am headed to the real estate office and the bank to finish the final paperwork on my house. I never thought I'd be settled enough to buy a home, not with shuffling between all corners of Canada and the United States over the last twenty years, but something compelled me to put down roots here, in Dawson Creek. It's much bigger than Inuvik - almost bustling, in comparison - but after living in cities for years, it works somehow.

My house is just three miles outside of the city limits, with ten acres, about which Diefenbaker is beside himself. I had to buy a small truck to make the commute between campus and the house. It feels like I've grown up, now that I'm approaching forty, buying houses and cars and having the prospect of a tenure-track teaching job.

My students are wonderful, even better than those at the CIA. They are mostly older students, and many of them from Métis families in the area. It is such a joy and a challenge to be able to teach them about something that I love so much, and see them get excited about it, excited about cooking and the chance at something different in their lives.

I have made a few friends among the faculty at Northern Lights, and have picked up a small number of catering jobs here and there, but mostly, I spend time in my apartment, watching the tourists in their cars, turning onto the Alaska Highway, or those striding along, out on hikes.

It is indeed very good to be back up North.

* * *

"Now, take care to keep the heat low enough not to burn the roux, and don't let it color. Béchamel is a white sauce, and you can't make a white sauce with a brown roux." Fraser watched carefully as his students constructed their sauce. This was day one of basic French sauces, and béchamel was a good starter. Very difficult to ruin. Although he'd learned after years of teaching that it was really quite phenomenal what students could ruin if they put their minds to it.

"Stir in the cream - that's it, yes, slow - and let it simmer gently, to thicken."

He thought he smelled something burning, but before he could move to look for the source, the kitchen door opened. Fraser felt faint, like the whole room was spinning and tipping, as Ray Kowalski walked in the door. He was wearing a huge, ridiculous down jacket and a hat and gloves, and he looked freezing cold, his teeth chattering. When he made eye contact with Fraser, he smiled, and Fraser had to swallow, hard, to keep from going to him.

He took a deep breath, and gave the rest of the instructions, and once about three quarters of the room had produced a halfway decent béchamel, Fraser released the class, feeling himself blush as his students stared at Ray and whispered to each other. Ray was leaning against the wall next to the door, his coat draped over his arm.

Fraser thought Ray might be the best thing he had seen since he'd moved north. The best thing Fraser had seen in longer than he could remember.

"So, Ray," he said, glancing around the room to make sure that the kitchen was clean and everything put away, "what brings you to Dawson Creek?" Fraser said casually, even though every fiber of his being was the furthest from casual.

Ray stepped forward, draping his coat over the back of one of the tall chairs, leaning with his hands braced on it. "I was in the neighborhood, thought I'd drop by."

"Ah, I see." Fraser's heart was pounding, out of control, and nothing was making sense at all, because Ray was here, in Canada, in his classroom, and he didn't even know how on earth Ray had known where he was. Why Ray was here at all.

"I figured you might not want to see me, but I had to try. I'm really sorry, Ben, about how I acted back in Chicago. I was a grade-A asshole, and I'm surprised you didn't punch me, that day in the park." Ray looked a little scared, like he thought Fraser might push him away here, now.

Fraser had a million questions, but the first one that came out was, "What happened with Stella?"

Ray laughed, a dry, hollow laugh that sounded all wrong for Ray. "We're through. Things were - they were never _right_. I loved her, don't get me wrong, and she loved me, but she always wanted something more. And I guess I did too, sort of."

"I'm sorry," Fraser said quietly.

"Do not be sorry, Ben. I'm not sorry. I'm sorry I married Stella when I couldn't stop thinking about you for more than five seconds at a time after I met you that first day. I'm sorry Stella's ex who fucked off to Vegas without a word came back and she realized that she still had a thing for him. But we would have ended up hating each other if we stayed together, and I couldn't do that."

"Okay." and now for the real question, "But how - what are you doing _here_?"

Ray was silent for a moment. "I don't know. You don't make sense, but you're the only thing that's seemed right in a goddamn long time. And I remembered that Mark Smithbauer was your buddy. It was pretty easy to get him to give up information about you, by the way."

Mark. Of course. The only person who knew anything about Fraser, who had stayed around long enough to care. "Remind me to call him and give him a piece of my mind.” Fraser said, pausing, then looking right at Ray. “Or perhaps thank him."

Ray let out a sigh like he'd been holding his breath. "Ben - is it okay -"

But Fraser didn't want to waste any more time. He'd spent too much time out of his life being scared, and letting Victoria make him feel like he wasn't worth anything, and that he could only do things the wrong way. Ray was standing there, eyes lowered, afraid that Fraser going to turn him away. Fraser wasn’t willing to be with Ray when Ray was a married man, even though it was difficult, but Ray was free now, and Fraser was not going to hold himself back.

Not again. Fraser deserved this, deserved _Ray_. Ray understood how things could be wrong, enough to know when something was absolutely right. And Fraser was going to reach out and grab what he wanted and not let go, not for anything.

He stifled the spill of Ray's words with a press of his lips. Ray went still, for just a moment, before melting into Fraser's touch, wrapping his arms around Fraser's back and holding on tightly, and it was everything that Fraser had hoped and imagined.

It took him a few minutes of just standing there and kissing Ray before he remembered where they were, and broke away, feeling breathlessly happy. "Ray, would you like to accompany me to my house?"

Ray's hands were still anchored on Fraser's waist, and his face lit up into one of the biggest grins Fraser had ever seen. "Hell, yes.”

* * *

Ray followed Fraser's truck in his rental car, through the city and past the Alaska Highway, until there was a just a house, every so often. He turned right down his long driveway, and parked the car as Diefenbaker came running up. He apparently remembered Ray.

"Whoa, hey there, relax," Ray was saying, as Diefenbaker reintroduced himself. Ray was scratching Diefenbaker behind the ears and taking in Fraser's cabin and the surrounding land. "Nice place you got here, Ben."

"Thank you kindly," Fraser replied, leading Ray up the stairs and in the back door. Ray stayed close, and Fraser could feel his heat, through the layers and across the cold evening air, and he thought he'd been turned on for the last nine months of _thinking_ about Ray, but that was nothing compared with knowing that he could have this. That Ray could have it too.

Once Fraser got his hands steady enough to open the back door, Ray pushed in behind him, tossing his duffle bag through the door to the kitchen, then spinning Fraser around, keys still in hand, and pressing him into the wall. Fraser reached over to slam the door shut, leaving Diefenbaker whining outside. Ray growled as he leaned in to mouth at Fraser's jaw, almost making him lose his ability to stay standing, it felt so good. "God, Ben, so fucking good," Ray said, his voice low and hoarse. "It's better than I thought it would be."

Fraser nodded, pulling Ray in tighter and pushing his tongue against Ray's, learning the curves and indentations of his body, the way his skin stretched over planes of muscle and bone, and Fraser couldn't believe this was the first time that he got to really touch Ray. And Ray was so very right - months of thinking about this was nothing compared to the reality.

He had a million questions, about why Ray was there and what had happened with Stella, and if he was just going to pick up and fly out of Fraser's life the way he had just flown in. But right then, he just wanted to be in this moment, and worry about the rest later.

The slow pace they had settled into was ratcheting up, as Ray pushed his erection rhythmically against Fraser's thigh. Fraser was suddenly aware of his own arousal, and the effect of Ray's wonderful hands tugging Fraser's shirt out from his pants and pushing his hands up to stroke Fraser's chest.

"The bedroom," Fraser gasped, trying to remember that he didn't have to do this against the back door. "It's down the hall."

"Yeah, okay. Lead the way," Ray said, panting, and letting Fraser grab his hand and tug him down the hall.

Once there, they didn't even take the time to unmake the bed, just helped each other take off their clothes - shirts and pants and socks piling up at the foot of the bed. When they were finally naked, Ray pressed his hand, long fingers splayed, against Fraser's chest. "You are so fucking beautiful," he said, and Fraser knew that he should feel awkward or uncomfortable, having this man who he barely knew seeing him like this, touching him, but it wasn’t like that at all.

"You, Ray, you are - I can't believe you're here."

Fraser wanted to do a million things to and with Ray. He wanted to take Ray in his mouth, he wanted to be inside him - he wanted everything all at once, right then. He pressed Ray down into the mattress, letting himself feel the hard planes of Ray’s body, before Ray flipped them over. Fraser was on his back, and Ray climbed up and wrapped his hand around both of them, stroking them and thrusting, and it was perfect. It had been too long since someone had touched Fraser other than himself.

"Come on, Ben, please. Fuck. I want -"

"Yes, Ray, god. Please."

From that point forward, there were no words. None that made any sense, anyway, just Ray leaned down close to Fraser's ear and whispering things that made no sense but sounded like _thank god_ and Fraser let himself cry out when he came, thrusting up into Ray's fist and pulsing between them. Ray slowed, and Fraser held onto him as he slid through the wetness, slick and hot and so very good, moving against Ray’s skin until he came, breathless and shaking.

Fraser had questions on his lips, but instead of asking them, he let Ray roll to the side and tug up the blanket from the foot of the bed, covering them. Fraser wrapped his arms around Ray, not ever wanting to let go.

* * *

Fraser woke a few hours later, the room dark and cold. He extracted himself from the warm tangle of Ray's limbs to go and start the fire in the stove in the living room. He let a whining and petulant Diefenbaker in from the back porch, and grabbed another blanket off of the couch. He took a moment in the doorway of the bedroom to take in the sight of Ray, naked with the dark blue blanket thrown over his legs, and Fraser felt a flood of gratitude that Ray was here.

He lay back down next to Ray, pressing close, and draping the second blanket over them both to ward off the evening chill. He tried not disturb Ray, propping himself up on elbow just to watch him sleep. His face was lined, but less so in sleep, and the spikes of his hair were adorably crushed. Fraser took in the angle of Ray's jaw, the slight stubble, the curve and slope into his neck and shoulder. Ray was beautiful, more so than Fraser had ever noticed before. He couldn’t resist the urge to touch Ray, to be close to him, and he pressed his lips to Ray’s jaw.

Then, Ray's eyes blinked open, and the corners of his mouth turned up. "Good morning," he whispered.

Fraser reached out and let his fingertips trail down Ray's cheek. "It's not morning. In fact, it's about eight."

"Wow, you must have killed me then."

"You seem very much alive, Ray," Fraser said, knowing exactly what Ray meant. He moved closer and pulled Ray in close, letting him warm Fraser's hands and feet, which were cold from walking around the house. "Ray, can I ask you something?"

"Sure thing, Ben,” Ray said, sounding relaxed and happy.

"Are you staying?" As soon as it was out, he wanted to pull it back in, unsay the words. He wanted the answer, but he also felt like he had no right to ask. He had so much still to learn about Ray, so much he wanted to know, and he wanted the opportunity and the _time_ to find out what Ray's favorite food was, or whether he preferred hockey or baseball, or why he decided to become a police officer, or when he met Stella. When he knew that he was going to leave Chicago and travel thousands of miles to Canada to see a man who he barely knew. He didn't want to expect anything, but he wanted to know Ray Kowalski, in every way there was to know him.

Ray pulled back, enough to look right in Fraser's eyes. "God, I know it's probably stupid - none of this makes one damn bit of sense - and I have no clue what I'm doing here, but I don't want to go. This is right. I have to see where this is going to go. You know what I mean?"

"Yes, I do," Fraser said softly, leaning forward to capture Ray's lips with his own. "Stay with me, Ray. Stay here, and let me - I want to know you. Everything." He wanted it so much he could taste it.

It was only seconds later when he was being hugged so hard he could barely breathe that he registered Ray saying, over and over again, "Yes, yes, yes."

* * *

_December 18, 1996  
Dawson Creek, British Columbia_

Christmas is in one week, and it turns out that Ray is filled with the Christmas spirit. I came home last week to a Christmas tree covered in lights and ornaments that I have had since I was a child, and the smell of mulled cider and cookies filling the house. When I asked what was going on, Ray just smiled and said, "Merry Christmas, Ben." I'm afraid the cookies were rather burnt after we got sidetracked, but no one minded except Diefenbaker.

A few boxes of Ray's things arrived on Tuesday - his stereo and music and some clothes. His car will be here next week, despite my explanations that a 1967 Pontiac GTO had no place on the roads of northern British Columbia. He refused to see reason. He figures he'll be able to take it out in the summer.

Ray gave notice to the Chicago Police Department, which must have been very difficult for him, after almost twenty years of being a police officer. I can't imagine giving up my life's profession like that, but Ray insisted that it was what he wanted. My salary at the college is good enough for everything we need, so Ray is trying to figure out what he is going to do here. I know he's sent some resumes, although he's keeping quiet on the details. I know with absolute certainty, even after these few short weeks, that Ray will be good at whatever he does. He is a deeply passionate man.

He also called Stella, who said that she would have her lawyer call him here. He says it's strange, getting a divorce, but he doesn't regret anything.

Exams end tomorrow, and Ray and I plan to spend the next few weeks sleeping in, and Ray has asked me to teach him to cook. I think we'll start with boiling water.

I have to stop, because Ray just threw the dish towel at my head and told me to "stop fucking writing already, Ben. It's time for dinner." His stomach waits for no man.

* * *


End file.
